


The Man from the Boulevard des Capucines

by Multiple_Universes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Comes Love AU, Cowboys, Fluff, Humour, Love at First Sight, M/M, Movie AU, Parody, Romantic Comedy, Victuuri Week, almost everyone is a cowboy or a cowgirl, innocent Victor Nikiforov, saloon dancer Yuuri Katsuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 22:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multiple_Universes/pseuds/Multiple_Universes
Summary: Victor Nikiforov is a man with a dream. After seeing the Lumière Brothers demonstrate their invention at the Boulevard des Capucines he makes it his goal to introduce as many people as he can to the wonders of cinematography. Fate brings him to a small town where he meets the love of his life: saloon dancer, Yuuri Katuski.





	The Man from the Boulevard des Capucines

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based loosely on the movie “The Man from the Boulevard des Capucines”. I know this is supposed to be a historic prompt, but I think I got more of a parody, so take this with a grain of salt.  
> Random useless thing I found out while looking up a couple of facts for this: apparently the Western genre has a whole bunch of subgenres, one of which includes Western porn. I will leave you to contemplate that little morsel of information now…  
> This is for Day One of Victuuri Week. The prompt is: Historical AU.

A carriage with two horses made its way through a dusty road in the middle of the wide, open plains. With the exception of one very scenic hill, the land on either side of the road was flat. So flat, in fact, that on one side you could see the Rocky Mountains in the distance, while on the other – people were prepared to swear that on a clear day they could see the buildings of New York. They were exaggerating, of course, but the truth was: it was possible to see very far, but there was nothing to break the monotony of the plains, nothing for the eye to rest upon.

The carriage was full of travellers, most of them people from a small town that barely had a name. There was one exception, however, and everyone eyed him warily, wondering what possible business he had in their town. After all, the carriage was going there and nowhere else.

The outsider was a young man with very fair hair, so light, in fact, that it was almost white. He had big innocent blue eyes and was dressed really well, like a man of the city, and not at all like a man who lived out on one of the ranchos on the plains. There was a white silk scarf hanging from his neck and he wore a pair of white gloves. When the clouds of dust from the wheels of the carriage got too thick he’d raise a handkerchief to his nose delicately and wait for the dust to settle.

Everyone else in the carriage had already exchanged a few mocking smiles. Here was a man, their smiles said, that would get swallowed up by the plains and would never be seen again.

The coachman shouted at the horses to speed up, accompanying the command with a crack of the whip.

“Is something wrong?” the naïve man asked.

The red-haired woman sitting across from him scoffed. “Bandits. Haven’t you ever heard of them before?”

“Oh my goodness!” the man exclaimed, clutching a book in his hands.

The woman rolled her eyes, raised her skirts discreetly and pulled a gun out of the holster at her leg. “I have two guns,” she offered.

The man gave her a shocked look. “Are you offering me one? I could never kill anyone!”

“Then you’ll be killed,” she said coldly, cocking her gun and leaning out of the window.

The sound of the shot made the man jump in his seat. The woman let out a triumphant cry: she’d hit her target.

Two dozen men on horses were converging on the carriage and one man, all in black, stood on the single hill, which provided a nice view of the road from above.

“It’s Black Jacques!” the woman exclaimed and laughed. “If we catch him, we’ll get a big reward!”

“Black Jack?” the naïve man repeated.

“No, no, _Jacques_ ,” the woman corrected with a roll of her eyes. “They say he came from up north. He robs every coach that comes his way. Now he’ll try to rob us, no doubt!” She laughed as she took in the look on the man’s face. “Don’t tremble like that! I promise to protect you.”

But she couldn’t keep her promise. Black Jacques (who’d once been merely Jean-Jacques Leroy) stopped the carriage and ordered his men to unload everything on the coach.

The travelers were forced to get out of it and stand as Black Jacques’ men rifled through their things.

One of them tried to search the woman, but all he managed to find was the kick to the stomach she gave him.

The naïve man stood with a book in his hands.

Black Jacques looked him up and down. “I’m willing to bet that what you’re clutching so tightly is the Bible,” he said with a confident smile.

He held out his hand and the naïve man handed the book over without a word.

“Getting prepared for a better life?” Jacques joked as he accepted the book.

“I wish you the same,” came the reply.

Jacques burst out laughing. “I’m not in a hurry.” He opened the book and stared at its contents in puzzlement.

The woman scoffed. “Looks like Black Jacques’ skills don’t include being able to read!”

“But I have an excellent sense of hearing!” he snapped back. “Damn it! I’m no literary man, of course, but even I can tell that a lot of these pages are blank.”

The man smiled politely. “The pages of the history of the cinematograph, sir,” he explained. “Join me and we can write them together!”

Jacques laughed and tossed the book at its owner. “Another time, perhaps.”

His men brought out the chest of money that had been strapped down at the back of the carriage and he went over its contents very thoroughly.

The coachman stepped forward. “Jacques, can you sign here to say that you stole 150 thousand dollars?”

“100 thousand,” Jacques corrected him with a laugh. “I may not be a literary man, but I can count very well. And, besides, I doubt any insurance company would accept my signature.”

“Not unless you have an agreement with its owner,” the coachman supplied meekly.

This made Jacques laugh again. “Remember my words, men: one day corruption will destroy this country.” And with that prophesy he mounted his horse and was gone, closely followed by his men.

The travelers returned to the carriage and continued their journey.

 

The town so small it barely had a name was just a gathering of a dozen wooden houses, a saloon and a church.

The travelers got out of the carriage one by one. The naïve man was the second last one to get out. He held his hand out to help the woman down, but she merely laughed and jumped out of the carriage.

“Forgive me,” the man said, “for not introducing myself. My name is Victor Nikiforov.” He gave a polite bow.

The woman laughed. “Mila Babicheva, but I wouldn’t waste any efforts to charm me, if I were you: I’m married.”

Victor laughed at this, “Oh no! I merely wished to thank you for your help during our journey.”

She regarded him with a twinkle in her eye and then the sound of someone shouting her name made her turn.

A young woman with long hair was running down the street to greet her.

Mila turned and, to Victor’s great surprise, drew out her gun. But the young woman was ready: her gun was in her hand almost at the same time.

They eyed each other in contemplative silence for one really long minute and burst out laughing, putting their guns away.

Victor breathed out a sigh of relief.

Then he turned around, remembering what he’d come to the town for. “Excuse me,” he said, approaching a drunk man, lounging in the shade, “can you please tell me where…” He stopped and frowned. “No, I suppose not.”

“Try the apothecary,” the man suggested. “He can usually help with that sort of thing.”

“Thank you,” Victor turned away and walked in the direction the man had indicated.

There was an elderly lady deep in conversation with the apothecary when Victor entered the small house.

“…and remember,” the apothecary said, “take two drops before shooting practice, not after.”

The woman gave a half-hearted shrug and left with her head raised proudly.

Victor moved out of her way with a “good day”. He stepped forward and opened his mouth, his request ready.

While Victor tried to explain what he needed to the apothecary a fight was brewing in the saloon across the street.

 

Chris walked into the saloon, feeling angry and exhausted. He sat down at the first empty table he found and ordered a steak and a glass of whiskey, hoping both would arrive with as little fuss as possible and knowing how unlikely this was.

Just as he suspected, the steak didn’t arrive alone. “I want to talk to you, Chris,” a man said, sitting down across the table from him and putting his feet up on the table.

Chris didn’t raise his eyes. “I don’t.”

“What? You think that I’m so worthless that there’s nothing you can possibly say to me?”

Chris sighed. “That’s not what I said, Michele.”

Michele, a hot-blooded cowboy, whose sister was married to Mila, was always picking fights. No one knew why. They supposed that it was merely his way of passing the time.

And, so, he wasn’t going to accept any apology whatsoever and merely swung his arm around to hit Chris, who managed to duck just in time to avoid it. The punch hit someone else.

Four misjudged attacks later every single cowboy in the saloon joined the fight, swinging men around, throwing them against the walls all while the pianist accompanied them with a jolly tune on the piano.

The barman Celestino yawned. It was always the same: another day, another fight. He kept track of all the damage as well as who broke what. Afterwards, he would present them all with the bills and, if they ever wanted to drink in his saloon again, they would pay. He used to cheer some of the fighters on and, for a time, he would bet on who would be the last man standing. He didn’t need to bet anymore, because the outcome was always the same.

Five men flew out the window, one after the other, everyone else lay unconscious on the floor.

Chris returned to his seat and calmly finished his steak. “Another whiskey!” he called out and a waiter brought him a glass without another word.

 

The apothecary refused to understand what Victor was asking for. He mumbled something about “that sort of thing not being sold here” and sent Victor away.

What could he do? Could anyone help him or would he have to find some sort of means to go to the next town and try his luck there?

He came out onto the street, hoping for some inspiration when he spotted a man flying out of the saloon. Forgetting his troubles, he ran to help.

What could a man who’d never had any medical training hope to do for a man who was unconscious? Victor lay him down in the shade and got up to see what all the commotion was about.

Another man flew out of the window. Victor managed to catch him just in time. He lay him down carefully next to the first one.

Before long, there were several bodies laid out carefully next to each other, legs all pointing in the same direction, hands folded neatly over their chests. Victor walked among them and made sure they were all breathing.

He straightened up and headed for the saloon, determined to ask for some water to help revive them when he heard it:

“ _Cowboy, the hero of magical dreams_ ,” a voice sang and Victor forgot everything as he heard the call of love, “ _You excite me, I won’t lie. Cowboy, find a few sweet words and I will go with you._ ”

He stood with his mouth half-open and drank the song in, too stunned to understand a single word.

“ _And amid the racket of the day, or in the silence of the night, your words of love I will hear. Just say them and I will hear you._ ” the singer insisted. “ _I promise I’ll hear you._ ”

His feet moved on their own, taking him inside the saloon. He barely made it into the room when he felt his knees weaken under him and he dropped into the nearest chair.

“ _An actor is loved for his skill_ ,” other voices sang together, “ _and a musician for his playing, but what I love in a cowboy, I will only tell him when we’re alone._ ”

“ _Cowboy, though you are quite the man and my heart thinks only of you_.” There was a young man on the stage in a deep red velvet dress that didn’t reach his shoulders, but went all the way down to his ankles. There was a rose in his short black hair and a smile on his lips. He sang as several dancers kicked their legs up behind him. “ _My cowboy, you are brave, it’s true, but trouble is – stringing two words together is beyond you_.”

Every person in the smoke-filled saloon watched the performance on the stage. The pianist played a poor accompaniment, some of the dancers on the stage were out of synch, but none of that mattered.

There was a god on the stage and Victor was ready to worship him.

His shirt felt tight and he loosened his collar a little and asked softly for a glass of water.

“Water?” the man at his table repeated and burst out laughing. “Don’t drink that trash. If you start drinking that, your life won’t be worth a broken penny!”

But a waiter brought Victor a glass of water nonetheless.

“ _At least for me, say those words, at least for me. And I will hear you. I promise I’ll hear you_ ,” the singer went on with a wink in what Victor was prepared to swear was his direction. He turned, dropped onto the outstretched arms of the people next to the stage and then got up and laughed.

All the dancers laughed and ran around the stage, turned their backs to the audience and raised their skirts to show off all their undergarments to whistles from the admiring crowd. The music got louder as they reached the grand finale and all the dancers sang as one.

“ _A sailor is loved for his bravery and a captain for his wine, but what I love about a cowboy is that he’s got_ ,” a dozen legs kicked into the air at once. “ _He’s got, yes, he’s got,”_ one of the dancers almost lost his balance, “ _he’s got everything I need_!”

The song ended there and the dancers were gone. Some of them left and some of them came down to join the cowboys sitting around the tables. One of them sat down on the lap of the cowboy across the table from Victor and winked at him. But, most importantly, the main dancer, had vanished without a trace.

Every person with a gun in their hand fired it into the air in a show of appreciation.

“I think I’m in love,” Victor whispered.

The cowboy next to him laughed. “Forget about him. Yuuri’s heart has more locks on it than Fort Knox.” The dancer sitting on his lap clung onto him as he laughed as well.

“I’m sorry,” Victor said to the man sitting opposite. He rose to his feet and bowed politely. “Victor Nikiforov, at your service.”

The man laughed. “Chris Giacometti.” He tapped the nose of the dancer sitting on his lap playfully as he introduced him as well. “And what brings you to our town?”

“One day I was walking along the Boulevard des Capucines,” Victor began in the tones of someone prepared to tell his entire life story with footnotes and appendices, “when I ended up at an evening screening organized by the Lumière Brothers and I thought: what a wonderful invention! There’s the answer to all of our prayers and the solution to all of our problems!”

Chris gave him a look that was half puzzled and half suspicious. “Are you a religious man at all, Victor?”

“What? No, not really,” Victor said distractedly as he threw another glance at the stage. And then he shook himself. “Listen,” he leaned forward, “do you have a white bedsheet?”

The dancer burst out laughing as Chris’s eyebrows rose. “No, I don’t.” He’d never heard the expression before, but he was almost certain that he knew what Victor was asking for.

“Gentlemen,” Victor said, rising to his feet and looking around the saloon, “do any of you have a white bedsheet?”

“Chris,” someone said to the sound of sniggering, “I think your new friend is trying to insult us.”

Everyone jumped to their feet, hands on their guns, preparing themselves for another fight when a shot rang out and made them all turn around.

Yuuri stood on the stage, dressed like the rest of the cowboys this time, with a smoking gun in his hand. “Who’s asking for a white bedsheet? I have one.”

Victor crossed the saloon and pressed his lips to Yuuri’s hand reverentially. “Thank you!” he said, looking up into the dancer’s eyes.

“I… I even have two white bedsheets,” Yuuri stammered out, blushing deeply, “and they’re both yours.”

“I think Fort Knox just raised the white flag,” someone in the room muttered.

**Author's Note:**

> A small explanation for anyone going “white bedsheet? Huh?”: Victor brought a cinematograph with him, which works by projecting images onto a screen, but where can you get a screen in a saloon? You should be able to get a white bedsheet, though haha…  
> Thank you for commenting and leaving kudos! I don’t know if I there will be a continuation, but maybe later?


End file.
